


Untamable

by wickedthoughts



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Castration, Circumcision, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, First Time, HYDRA Trash Party, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Original Character Death(s), Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Rape Recovery, Scars, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 14:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11670582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedthoughts/pseuds/wickedthoughts
Summary: Hydra tried, but it couldn't take this away from them.





	Untamable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancinbutterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/gifts).



> A sequel to ["Pretend".](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11523237/chapters/25864968) A sequel that ended up 6,000+ words longer than the original, oops. Special thanks to [dancinbutterfly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly) and [thefilthiestpiglet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thefilthiestpiglet) for their comments and encouragement.
> 
> Please read the tags. It is not necessary to have read "Pretend", the takeaway is that Steve was raped by a group of Hydra soldiers in 1945. This story deals with Steve's recovery from that in the present as he adjusts to having Bucky back in his life, even as Bucky tries to recover in his own way. It's set vaguely after _Winter Soldier,_ without _Civil War_ happening.

* * *

It takes a year-and-a-half of specialized therapy for Bucky to get better. As much as he’ll ever be able to get better. It’s a collaborative effort between Tony, Dr. Cho, and Dr. Cooper from the government’s Commision on Superhuman Activities. A blend of psychology and technology that looks painful whenever Steve watches from behind the two-way glass. Bucky agreed to do it, when they gave him the option of rehabilitative cognitive therapy for a year or two, or else the Raft for the rest of his enhanced life.

Steve’s still not sure that was much of a choice, but Bucky glared at him when Steve made the suggestion they fight the ruling, and Steve let him pretend he was choosing. Bucky’s glares never used to give him much pause, before, but this new Bucky, with hair like curtains, an arm replaced with metal, and shockingly haunted eyes, managed to shut Steve’s mouth and quell his fiery outrage.

(His eyes were dull after Steve got him and the others out of the factory in Austria back in ‘43, and they never fully regained their shine. Not like his eyes now, though. Nothing like his eyes now).

Steve’s allowed to take Bucky from the prison with him once Dr. Cooper clears the last session. Bucky’s unstrapped from a chair that looks marginally friendlier than the one Steve saw in Natasha’s files from Kiev, and Bucky smiles softly at Dr. Cooper and shakes her hand as if she hasn’t spent the better part of the last eighteen months literally and figuratively prodding at his brain.

“Take care, Bucky,” she tells him and lets him leave the room without an escort to take him back to his cell.

(He tells people to call him _Bucky_ when they try to call him _James._ That gives Steve hope like nothing else).

Bucky stops when he sees Steve waiting for him outside the room. His façade of a smile flickers.

“What now, pal?”

Bucky tries to keep his voice light. Tries to make it sound like there wasn’t a lifetime of horror between now and the last time they saw each other as young men. Steve falters. The words _home_ and _with me_ die on his lips. They seem empty. As empty as Bucky’s eyes.

(He’s afraid. He hates how afraid he is of Bucky).

“I, uh, I have a spare bedroom ready for you,” Steve forces the replacement words out. The words meant to signify _home_ and _with me_ and _I love you, I still love you, I’ve always loved you._ “It’s kinda small, but we can see about getting you your own place soon- ”

“I love you.”

Bucky interrupts, and Steve was expecting anything but that. He gapes at Bucky, and he sees Bucky’s eyes widen slightly, as if surprised. Bucky’s eyes widen, but there’s a spark of life in them that Steve hasn’t seen in over seventy years.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

Bucky looks afraid. Like he’s afraid of Steve. Steve hates that, too.

“Did you mean it?”

Steve’s tone is sharper than he’d like, but he has to know. He’s spent years thinking about Bucky. Years trying _not_ to think about Bucky. Keeping people at arm’s length, because he knows if he lets them in they’ll end up hurt like Bucky did. He has people in his life who’ve breached those defenses somewhat, Sam, Natasha, even Tony to some degree, but he’ll never let anyone die for him again. He’ll never let anyone die _because_ of him again.

(Bucky’s not dead. He’s changed, but he’s not dead, and he’s _here)._

“Yeah,” Bucky says. His voice is flat. “Been in love with you since you were a dumb punk pickin’ fights with guys three times your size. Loved you after, too, when you got bigger and wised up that you were too good for me.”

His eyes widen again, like he can’t control what’s coming out of his mouth, and Steve’s worried that’s the case. If Hydra’s torture didn’t cross Bucky’s wires, then the so-called good guys’ therapy must have done the trick.

“I never thought- ” Steve begins hotly, horrified that Bucky would think that.

“I know,” Bucky looks down at his feet. “I know you never did. That’s my own bullshit. Didn’t mean to say that, either.”

“Fuck,” Steve exhales loudly. “Bucky, I- ”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky’s voice is still empty as he looks back up at Steve. “I’ll get out of your life as soon as I can.”

“No, you fucking idiot, just let me get a fucking sentence out,” Steve snaps, cringing internally at himself. “I’m not- I just- ”

(He’s not allowed to say it, to even think it. He’s not, but Bucky said it first. He can’t wrap his mind around it, but Bucky said it first).

“I love you, too, Buck. I’ve loved you for so long, and I’m just- I’m _pissed_ that you loved me and we never- we could’ve- ”

(Before Hydra got their hands on both of them).

“No time like the present.”

Bucky takes a step forward, and there’s a hint of the old Bucky in his eyes. In his eyes, and in the upward quirk of his lips, and in the confident swagger creeping into his voice and his gait. His arms rise as if to embrace Steve.

(A metal fist pounding into his face in the Helicarrier wreckage as Bucky screamed at him. The metal fist Hydra gave him, and after Hydra took so much from Steve. Hydra already took Bucky, as-good-as took Steve’s ability for love and intimacy, and this will never work).

Steve flinches backward and Bucky stops.

“Sorry,” Bucky’s swagger is gone. Steve hates himself for making it go away. “You’re right.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say.

“I’ll get my stuff,” Bucky sets his shoulders. “I’ll meet you in the hangar.”

“I can go with you.”

“No need,” Bucky’s voice betrays no hurt. It betrays nothing at all. “I got this. I’m a free man now.”

“About damn time.”

“Yeah.”

Bucky doesn’t sound like he believes it. He waves Steve off and goes to find a guard to collect his meager belongings. Steve knows they’re mostly little things he’s asked Steve to get for him over the last year. His books. His change of civilian clothes. A handful of letters from strangers who believed in his innocence and wanted to let him know.

He looks better without the orange glow of his jumpsuit when he finds Steve in the hangar. He looks happier, wearing a dark henley and blue jeans with his hair swept up in a messy ponytail. Steve wants to rip the clothes off of him and run his fingers through that hair. He’s grown fond of that strange hairstyle on Bucky. His Bucky.

(It’s not fair to Bucky. He knows what Hydra’s done to Bucky, so much worse than what it did to Steve that it’s not remotely comparable).

Bucky smiles at him. It’s not the rakish grin Steve remembers from before, but it’s the best Bucky can manage these days. More than Steve ever would have hoped for.

(It won’t work. Hydra’s taken too much from both of them).

Bucky’s smile fades. They board the Quinjet in silence.

* * *

 

Bucky stays in the second bedroom of Steve’s New York apartment. It’s in Manhattan, but they can see Brooklyn out the window, across the water. Steve’s never been more embarrassed by the lavishness he enjoys, but Bucky loves it. He loves it, and Steve wants to give Bucky the world.

(Bucky loves him, but they can’t. It won’t work).

Bucky has a handful of pills he takes every morning. Pills for both his body and his brain. Even with them, Bucky sometimes says things he doesn’t mean to. Sometimes he says them in other languages, most of which Steve doesn’t understand. Bucky never brings up their last conversation from the Raft. That, Steve understands. It’s on him now.

(They can’t).

Three weeks after Bucky moves in, Sam, Natasha, and Wanda come to visit. Wanda’s never met Bucky. She calls him _Mr. Barnes_ and Bucky laughs kindly. She calls him Bucky after that. Sam hides under a belligerent mask, but after a few beers he warms up to Bucky and his teasing turns amicable. He’s very interested in Bucky’s left arm, asking questions and respectfully tracing the metal plates with his fingers after Bucky offers to let him. Natasha watches them with an inscrutable smile, one eyebrow raised.

Steve pretends admirably. He knows Bucky’s pretending, too. Hell, everyone here is pretending. Steve hates it. He smiles and laughs, and he hates it.

After their guests leave, Bucky insists on doing the dishes while Steve showers. He dresses in sweatpants and a T-shirt, then walks barefoot to the kitchen to check on Bucky. He’s still afraid. He has to know where Bucky is. Like Bucky’s some skittering insect in his room, more terrifying when he’s out of sight. Steve will get up in the night to make sure Bucky is where Steve left him, sleeping in his own bed. He hates that he needs that to feel safe. He hates how afraid he is of Bucky.

(How afraid Hydra made him. Not just of Bucky).

The water’s running in the sink. A plate has shattered on the floor, and Bucky’s sitting cross-legged across from it with his back against the cupboards. His head is in his hands.

“Buck?”

Steve turns off the water. His heart pounds. He steps directly on a ceramic shard, but he can barely feel it. His skin’s too tough to be pierced by something so delicate. Bucky looks up at him. Steve thought he might have been crying, but he’s relieved to see that Bucky’s eyes are dry. He kneels in front of him.

“Everything okay?”

“No,” Bucky answers bluntly. “I kinda- I sorta, I don’t know, _glitched_ or something.”

(Like he’s describing a machine).

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Bucky says again. “I want _you_ to talk to _me.”_

He’s gotten better at hiding whether or not he’s said something unintentionally. Steve doesn’t know which this is.

“Sure, okay,” Steve lies. He’s kneeling in broken porcelain, ready to spring to his feet. Ready to fight, or run, whichever reveals itself as more prudent in the moment. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“I know you’re afraid of me. Which is fine, I get it. I just want you to stop lying to me about it.”

There’s no discernible emotion in Bucky’s voice. Steve hates it. He bitterly misses the boy he knew before, the one with the swagger in his step and the gleam in his eye. The boy he knew before Hydra got their hands on him. How is that fair to Bucky, when Steve’s been changed by Hydra for the worse, too?

“Bucky- ”

“Stop. I can tell when you’re about to lie to me, Steve.”

Steve surrenders. It’s a relief. Fighting Bucky is exhausting, and he hates it.

“Fine. You’re right.”

He sits fully on the kitchen floor. The remains of the ruined plate clink melodically around him.

“I thought you were dead. I let you go. And then you _weren’t,_ and, I know I should be happy. I know I should go back to loving you the way I always did, but- but- I can’t.”

(He’s scum. He’s the worst person in the world).

Bucky’s face is blank.

“I believe you. Thank you.”

“That’s it?”

Steve’s angry. At himself, and now at Bucky. Bucky says he loves Steve, shouldn’t Bucky be angrier? Shouldn’t he fight for Steve, even if that means fighting Steve himself?

(Hydra took everything from both of them. Why shouldn’t Hydra’s cruelest weapon finish the job?)

He hates himself and his thoughts.

“Should there be more?” Bucky asks with genuine confusion. “You don’t love me anymore, I get it. It happens.”

“No, fuck you, that’s not what I said,” Steve tries to pack all his rage at Bucky’s calm rationality into the words. “I still love you, I do, it’s just- it’s not the same, it can’t be. It won’t work.”

“Why the fuck would you expect it to be the same, Stevie?”

Bucky’s eyes narrow at him incredulously. Steve remembers the same look on Bucky’s face after Steve’s mother had passed and Steve had suggested that he didn’t need Bucky’s help. That he didn’t need anyone’s help.

(He shouldn’t have held out on Bucky. He should have let Bucky help him with more than a shared apartment. Maybe then everything would have turned out differently, or if not differently, at least it would have been good for a little while).

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve shakes his head. “It’s too late. I loved you, I wanted you, and you didn’t see. It could have been so good. It could’ve been so good, and we could have- ”

(Before Hydra got their hands on both of them).

Steve chokes and swallows. Bucky doesn’t grant him leniency.

“You pushed me away. How could I have fucking seen when you wouldn’t let me?”

Bucky’s angry. Frighteningly angry. Steve shivers, and hates how glad he is that Bucky is fighting back.

“God, I lied to myself, I lied to all those girls, some guys, too, and I was okay with it because you’d already pushed me away! And now you tell me- and you have the fucking nerve to _blame_ me?”

Steve knows Bucky’s right. He’s right, and old wounds that Steve’s told himself were closed and healed rip open. It hurts, it hurts unbearably, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

“It was always you,” he tells Bucky hopelessly. “It was always supposed to be you, but now it can’t be. You’re not dead, you’re right here with me, and it still can’t be.”

“You’re doing it again,” Bucky says dully, his anger quiet. “You’re pushing me away, and then you’re gonna resent _me_ for it.”

(He needs help again. He needs Bucky to help him).

Steve wants to scream. He’s never been good at accepting help, let alone asking for it. He was small and sick for the majority of his life, the parts he wasn’t sleeping through, and asking for help was just one more indicator of his hated weakness.

“Please,” is all Steve can muster in lieu of _help me._ “Bucky, please.”

Bucky’s face softens, and Steve remembers that he’s had Bucky wrapped around his finger for the majority of his life, too.

“We can do this, you and me,” Bucky offers gently. “Ain’t saying it’ll be easy, but nothing in life ever is, is it?”

There’s darkness at the end of his question. Steve shakes his head. He can’t do this to Bucky. He can’t make Bucky take on his fear and pain, not when Bucky’s been hurt so much worse. Bucky didn’t have a shred of choice in the matter, not like Steve did.

(The girl’s name was Birgit, and her entire family had been killed a week prior. The Howlies buried her outside her village. Gabe painted her name on a stone and Monty sang a dirge).

All the Howlies are dead now. Like Steve and Bucky should have been. Like Steve wanted to be, when he dove that plane into the water.

(Birgit’s stone is gone now, too. Steve’s looked).

“C’mere,” Bucky shifts a little closer, inviting Steve to bridge the rest of the gap between them. “Stevie, c’mere.”

(It’s not that _they_ can’t. It’s that Steve can’t).

“I can’t put this on you, not after everything they did to you.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. So does his metal fist, the gears whirring inside.

“I don’t need your pity. I’m all better now, you saw.”

(Bucky used to scream, the first few months they strapped him down in that room and started with the projections and the questions. He would scream and scream, and Steve would fight every instinct telling him to break the glass and make it stop, his hands balled into fists so tight his palms bled).

“And put _what_ on me?” Bucky continues, kinder. “Pretty sure I know you better’n anybody, and I don’t even remember everything yet. I _know_ you, and all your tricks. Shoulda learned by now, you can’t get rid of me that easy, Rogers.”

(Steve’s only cried a handful of times since he was a child. A year ago, when Peggy died. Farther back, when his mother died. He also vividly remembers sobbing helplessly while Bucky’s scream echoed in his ears, huddled against the blown out side of a train rushing through the mountains).

Tears stream silently down Steve’s face, and he swipes furiously at them. Bucky’s eyes widen.

“Oh, shit, hey,” he puts his hands up disarmingly. “What’d I say?”

Steve wills his eyes to dry. It almost works.

“It doesn’t just go away,” Steve growls, trying to salvage his dignity. “You know that, more than most.”

“Maybe,” Bucky admits with forced nonchalance. “But I don’t wanna talk about it right now. I just want you to come over here.”

He holds his right arm up, and Steve can already feel the comforting weight of it across his shoulders before he surrenders completely and shifts over to sit beside Bucky, slumping to fit. It’s warm and safe underneath Bucky’s arm and pressed against his side. He feels Bucky kiss the top of his head. He closes his eyes and remembers when he was younger, dreaming of this, stupidly convinced that it could never happen.

(He was naked on hands and knees, mocking jeers over his head as they touched him and violated him instead of Birgit. He _let_ them do all of it, and he still didn’t manage to save her).

Smooth metal fingers touch his cheek, tracing the path of his tears, and he jerks violently away. Bucky’s first instinct is to hold him tighter, but he pulls his arm off immediately when Steve yells at him to let go. Porcelain clinks and gears whir. Steve’s on his feet, chest heaving, looking down at Bucky, fighting fear, anger, and shame. His tears have dried.

“Who was it?”

Bucky’s eyes are understanding. There’s sorrow in them, beneath a simmering fury that’s more ice than fire. Steve’s glad he’s not the target of that fury.

“Who hurt you?”

Steve scoffs. Of course he’s managed to make this about himself.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“‘Course it matters,” Bucky stands gracefully, keeping a respectful distance between them. “Who is it? He still around?”

“It was seventy-two years ago, and I took care of it,” Steve says stiffly. “They’re all dead.”

(He’s been telling himself it didn’t hurt, but it did. It did).

“They,” Bucky chews the word like it’s made of steel. “Shit, was I still around? You know, before we went after Zola on that train?”

(It still hurts).

“Hey,” Steve snarls. “There are things you don’t wanna talk about, and there are things I don’t wanna talk about either.”

“Fair enough.”

The ice recedes from Bucky’s eyes, but Steve knows it’s still there. Lurking.

“You get it now, right?” Steve can’t stop himself. “Why we can’t? Why this won’t work?”

Bucky looks annoyed. His eyes move from Steve’s eyes to somewhere beyond Steve’s left shoulder.

“There were some for me, over the years,” Bucky says distantly. “Repressed assholes, guys havin’ trouble with their wives at home, that sorta thing. Real easy for them to take advantage of something that can only do what it’s told.”

(Something. Not someone, something).

Steve’s blood boils. The fire to Bucky’s ice.

“I read about some of that. Are _they_ still around? ‘Cause I got to kill mine right away.”

He doesn’t mean for it to sound like a competition. Or maybe he does. It’s a competition, and Bucky’s winning, which ultimately makes Steve the real winner.

(Take that).

“Don’t know,” Bucky shrugs with more of that forced indifference. “Don’t really give a shit either way.”

He looks directly at Steve. There’s pain there now. Pain Steve knows well.

“I can’t put this on you,” Steve repeats. “You get that now?”

“No, _you’re_ the one who’s not getting it,” Bucky’s exasperation flares. “Yeah, what those guys did is fucking shitty, but that was about their issues, not mine. Honestly, I’m more pissed about all the people they made me kill than all the dicks they made me take.”

Bucky sneers and shrugs. It’s such a crass thing to say, so inappropriately flippant, and it’s so _Bucky_ that Steve’s heart aches. Steve wants to chide him. He wants to comfort him.

“Bucky.”

Steve can only say his name, and he takes joy when Bucky responds to it. Bucky’s here, and he knows his own name again. He remembers, enough if not everything.

“I’m not what they made me,” Bucky sounds vulnerable. “I’m not. I’m not a weapon, I’m a man, and I love you. Please, let me love you. Let me take care of you.”

Steve wants to agree. He wants to give Bucky anything he wants, the world if he asked, but he can’t give him this. He has to protect Bucky from this, like Bucky used to protect him.

(But he’s selfish, and he’s tired of fighting Bucky).

“C’mere.”

Bucky invites again, but he doesn’t move. He waits for Steve to decide. It’s a command, and it’s a plea, and Steve can’t resist either. He steps forward and folds himself against Bucky, crumpling himself to fit. He’s never missed his old body, not even once, but he does miss when Bucky would encircle his bony shoulders. Steve used to chafe against the comfort, against the implicit weakness, but he wants it now. He wants it more than anything.

“Yeah, I got you, Stevie,” Bucky embraces Steve slowly with the ghost of a swagger. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Steve can feel Bucky’s left arm humming through the thin fabrics of both their shirts, and he’s less afraid. He’s got Bucky back, and he can do anything. _They_ can do anything.

“Fuck, Stevie, I missed you so much,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s neck. “I missed you the whole time. Even when I didn’t know what I was missing, it was you.”

Bucky needs this, Steve understands. It helps temper Steve’s guilt at his own selfishness. Bucky needs to remember who he is and what he can do. All the things they tried to take away from him, but they couldn’t. Bucky’s too strong for that. Strong, confident, capable. His beautiful Bucky.

(He doesn’t have to tell himself not to think about Bucky. He never has to do that again).

Bucky guides Steve back to Steve’s bedroom. He lays Steve down on his back on the bed, straddling him, hovering over him. The overhead lights halo his dark hair, and Steve’s not afraid anymore. He hurts, and he’s ashamed, but he’s not afraid. That’s something, he thinks.

“It was always you,” Steve repeats, dazed. “It was always supposed to be you.”

“It _is_ me,” Bucky tells him, understanding, as he maneuvers Steve’s shirt off. “It is.”

(It is. The man he’s longed for since he was old enough to understand the feeling. Nearly a century of longing, and he’s here. Damaged, different, but _here)._

“I’m not what they made me,” Bucky repeats, dangerously vulnerable. “I’m not.”

“Kiss me,” Steve orders, full Captain fading quickly into insecurity. “I’ve never- not really- please. Kiss me.”

Bucky’s lips are surprisingly soft against Steve’s. Bucky’s all sharp angles, firm muscles, and hard metal these days, but his lips are plump and soft. His tongue chases Steve’s, finding him where he’s hiding and bringing him out. Steve gladly lets him.

Bucky lies flat against Steve, their chests pressed together. Stubble scrapes against Steve’s clean-shaven cheeks. It’s a new feeling. He loves it. He feels Bucky’s arousal, hot and hard against his own. He loves that, too.

(Hydra tried to take this away from both of them, but it failed. It failed).

Bucky fumbles down between their legs, stroking Steve’s cock through his sweatpants. That feels good. Better than when Steve touches himself. Much better than when that Hydra soldier touched him.

(Because it didn’t count. It didn’t).

Steve freezes for a second, letting the memory come and go. Then he laughs wildly, relieved. Bucky pulls his mouth from Steve’s, tilting his head quizzically at him. Steve laughs again, shaking his head in lieu of an explanation. A small smile curls Bucky’s lips.

“They thought they could take you away from me,” Bucky says incredulously. “Like they ever could.”

Steve’s sweatpants come off. So do Bucky’s shirt, jeans, and boxers as Bucky stands by the side of the bed and sheds them. He turns to Steve, still stretched out on the bed, and Steve sees the changes to Bucky’s body. He knew about them, read about them, but now he sees them and it’s Bucky’s turn to freeze. Bucky’s face is unreadable. Tense, but devoid of emotion. Bucky’s so much bigger now. Not that he was ever small. He has no hair anywhere below his neck, just like Steve.

“They fucked me up good, huh?”

Bucky’s voice has gone flat again, hands curled at his sides in loose fists. Steve sits up, grasping for words. Bucky’s covered in scars, more than Steve realized.

(Steve doesn’t scar on the outside).

He has seen the scars where metal and flesh fuse on Bucky’s back and shoulder. He hasn’t seen the pockmark bullet scars on Bucky’s abdomen, or the long scar from what looks like a serrated blade on Bucky’s right thigh. Bucky’s cock is hard, pointing toward his stomach. It’s as large as Steve remembers it from growing up together, curved to the left, but there are new scars there, too. A faint scar around the head where they’d removed his foreskin, and a darker scar underneath where they’d done the same to his testicles. There’s a flash of insecurity in Bucky’s eyes when Steve looks back to his face. The insecurity flickers into defiance.

“They thought they could take you away from me, too,” Steve reaches out and touches one of the round, white scars on Bucky’s stomach.

“At least they left you pretty.”

It’s spiteful, and Steve looks up to see Bucky’s eyes widen involuntarily. He shakes his head at Steve, silently telling him it was another of his thoughts that was never meant to be voiced, so Steve bites back all the responses he longs to give. Instead, Steve takes Bucky’s cock in his hand, stroking it, making it grow harder. Bucky doesn’t say anything, but his breathing quickens.

(He can’t believe how selfish he’s been. Hydra’s done so much worse to Bucky, taken so much more, and Steve has the gall to want Bucky to comfort him).

Bucky’s cock feels like velvet-wrapped steel in Steve’s hand. It looks longer without the tight rounds of his balls at the base. Steve’s fascinated. He’s never had another cock in his hand besides his own. He’s never seen a circumcised cock this closely. He’s never wanted to give someone as much pleasure as he wants to give Bucky right now. His own cock throbs with his desire.

“Wait,” Bucky groans, hips moving. “Stop. You first.”

Steve doesn’t want to, but he pulls his hand away.

(Is it more selfish to fight, or to surrender?)

Bucky pushes him backward, strong and gentle. Steve swallows his surge of fear as Bucky straddles him again, and they’re an awkward tangle of limbs, warm flesh and warmer metal buzzing with anticipation. Bucky sinks down Steve’s recumbent body, nuzzling at the crease of his thighs. It’s unbearable, having Bucky’s face there, so close to where Steve wants it. It’s unbearable, letting Bucky give this to him before Steve’s had the chance to take care of Bucky first.

“Bucky- ”

Steve doesn’t know how to ask, or command. He throws his head back into his pillow, eyes and fists clenched with both unbearable needs.

“Okay,” Bucky chuckles into Steve’s thigh. “Okay, pal. I gotcha.”

He sucks Steve’s cock into his mouth, and Steve’s eyes fly open with the feeling. It’s so good, better than anything he’s ever felt.

(It feels so good to be selfish).

“Bucky!”

Steve thrusts his hips up, driving himself deeper into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky takes him easily, his fingers clutching at both of Steve’s thighs. The fingers of his left hand are gentler than Steve would have imagined. He’s not afraid when they move to cradle his balls.

“Bucky,” he says again, softer. Bucky responds to his name, taking Steve even deeper, natural fingers scrabbling at Steve’s skin, metal fingers delicately caressing his balls. “Oh God, Bucky, yes!”

It’s different, when Steve comes. It’s different from all the times he’s touched himself, or that half-climax he had when the Hydra soldier pumped him to completion. All he can think about is how good it feels, and how it’s Bucky bringing him here. It’s Bucky, his beautiful Bucky. Soft mouth and gentle fingers. Everything Steve’s ever dreamed of.

(He’s afraid, that it’s as disgusting for Bucky as it was for him when he took that Hydra soldier in his mouth. He doesn’t want to do that to Bucky).

Bucky swallows, releases Steve’s softening flesh from his mouth, and kisses his way up Steve’s body. Steve grasps again for something to say. He bites back his playful question of where Bucky learned to treat a fella right like that. He’s afraid of the answer.

“Thank you,” he says instead. “Fuck, thank you.”

“We’re not done yet, Stevie.”

Bucky’s kissed his way up to Steve’s ear. Steve feels Bucky’s straining cock on his stomach. He wants to take care of Bucky.

“I mean, only if you want to.”

Bucky backtracks. There’s fear in his voice. Fear that he’s pressuring Steve into this. Fear that Steve didn’t want any of this.

(This is his first time. Bucky wants this, wanted to do this. Everything Steve’s ever dreamed of. Of course he wants this).

“I want you, Buck. I want you so bad.”

He feels Bucky swell with pride and need over him, and he knows that this isn’t about power. This isn’t about Bucky controlling, humiliating, Captain America. This is about Bucky loving Steve, and Steve loving him right back. This is about love.

(They didn’t take it away. From either of them).

“Get the fuck inside me, Bucky,” Steve growls in Bucky’s ear. “I want you to be my first.”

Bucky groans with longing. He sits up, rolling off Steve and fumbling for something to slick himself up with. He finds the bottle of Steve’s aloe vera on the bedside table. He raises his eyebrows, mildly teasing.

“What?” Steve shrugs. “It’s important to moisturize.”

Bucky laughs. Steve loves the sound of Bucky’s laughter, different from how it used to be, but deep and full.

“Don’t suppose you got a rubber around here, Mr. Moisturizer?”

Steve shakes his head in the negative.

“We’re super-soldiers, man. Pretty sure we can’t catch anything.”

Bucky grins at that. He grabs a pillow, and Steve helps Bucky get it underneath him to prop up his hips. Bucky empties a good amount of aloe into his right hand before returning the bottle to the table. He’s kneeling between Steve’s bent legs, his left hand resting lightly on Steve’s inner right thigh to help keep his legs spread wide. It’s slick and warm when Bucky’s fingers find Steve’s hole.

(The first Hydra soldier spat on his hand, and that was it. It hurt, but not so bad. Not the worst pain Steve’s ever felt. Not as bad as Bucky’s been hurt).

Steve gasps when Bucky’s right forefinger breaches him. He’s tight, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels strange. It feels _good._

“You okay?”

Over Steve’s head, Bucky’s eyes are blown with lust. Steve nods wildly and Bucky smirks.

“Ready for another one?”

Steve nods again, whispering his consent. Bucky’s middle finger joins the fun. There’s a little burn now, and Steve tenses.

“Still with me?”

“Yeah, just- hold up a moment.”

Bucky does, gently moving his fingers back and forth inside Steve. He can feel the aloe warming inside him.

(Blood and semen leaked from his ass for a day after Hydra was done with him. He sopped it up with rags, then burned the evidence. No one ever knew).

Steve quietly tells Bucky he’s ready for another finger. He’s not sure if he wants it, but he’s determined to give this to Bucky. Bucky’s ring finger slides inside, stretching. Steve’s uncomfortable now.

(This is nothing. He’s taken worse).

Bucky must see it in his face, because he slowly removes his fingers, one by one.

“Don’t lie to me, Steve,” Bucky says gruffly. “I won’t lie to you, but you can’t lie to me, either.”

Steve bites back more lies. He’s always been willing to lie as a means to an end, but he realizes that these days lying is his first instinct. When did that start?

(It started in a Hydra base in 1945. Or maybe it started before that, in a shared apartment whose occupants were both too stubborn and too stupid to see the other pining for them).

“I want you,” Steve tells Bucky the truth. “But I’m afraid.”

“Okay,” Bucky nods and removes both hands from Steve’s skin. “That’s fair.”

“Wait,” Steve sits up, trying to bring Bucky back to him. “I want- I want to- ”

He can’t articulate it, but he reaches down between Bucky’s legs and strokes Bucky’s waning erection.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks thickly, his cock stirring anew and betraying his interest. “You wanna help me with this?”

Steve nods, and pumps Bucky’s cock once before he pushes Bucky to move to the edge of the bed. Bucky sits, swinging his legs over the side and spreading them. Steve kneels on the floor in front of Bucky, eyeing the straining cock in front of his face.

( _Kein Beißen,_ the man said, fingers yanking in Steve’s hair, pulling Steve’s mouth where he wanted it. _No biting)._

“Steve?”

(It’s Bucky. Impossibly, miraculously, it’s Bucky, and Steve’s choosing this. There’s no pretending).

Steve takes Bucky into his mouth. Bucky doesn’t thrust, he sits very still and lets Steve take the lead. Steve experiments, bobbing up and down the length. He licks at the head, and Bucky shivers and grunts with pleasure, so Steve does it again. Then he takes Bucky as deep as he can without gagging. The place at the bottom where the scar begins is unbelievably soft. Steve fondles it with his tongue, gently moving the loose folds of skin. Bucky shivers again.

It takes a long time for Bucky to come. Steve’s worried it’s because he’s not very good at this, but Bucky seems to like what he’s doing. More than that, Steve finds that he loves having Bucky’s cock in his mouth. He loves the way Bucky’s body responds to his ministrations, and the soft noises of pleasure Bucky makes over his head. There’s no pressure to take him deeper than he can manage, and all he can smell is _Bucky._ There’s no reek of old sweat or the sour flavor of poor hygiene that was Steve’s first experience with this.

(Because _this_ is his first time).

When Bucky comes it’s not like anything Steve’s felt. It’s less a burst than a slow pulse of thin, hot fluid over his tongue. Steve laps it up greedily, swallowing it all down. He’d been afraid he would have to spit, but this is easy. It doesn’t taste sweet, but it doesn’t taste bad. It’s not the disgusting horror he remembers from 1945. He licks the last of it from the head of Bucky’s cock, tongue dipping into his slit, until Bucky breathlessly begs him to stop. Steve sits back, looking up at Bucky smugly.

(It feels so good to be selfish).

“C’mere.”

Bucky puts his trembling hand, slick with aloe, on Steve’s left shoulder. He pulls Steve up into his arms, and they sprawl backward on the bed, grappling half-heartedly. Laughing as they roll each other perilously close to either edge of the mattress. Steve ends up on his back in the center of the bed with Bucky lying on top of him. He likes it here.

“I love you,” Steve says, because there’s nothing else to say. “I still can’t believe you’re here with me.”

“Believe it,” he can’t see Bucky’s face, but he can hear the confident smirk. “Told you, you can’t get rid of me that easy.”

Bucky nips at Steve’s earlobe. He’s hardening again, grinding himself against Steve’s thigh. Steve feels his body responding in turn, ready for round two.

“Right back at you,” Steve clutches at Bucky’s shoulders, flesh and metal firm and safe beneath his fingers. “You’re stuck with me, never gonna let you go.”

They kiss, each man passing back the lingering essence of the other, and it’s sweet, it’s gentle, and it’s everything Steve used to dream of. Steve buries his fingers in Bucky’s long hair, running his fingers tenderly through the tangles he finds.

“I want you,” Steve pulls his lips from Bucky’s, thrusting his arousal up against Bucky’s hip. “I really do.”

Bucky pushes himself up on his arms above Steve. His hair falls down in his face, brushing Steve’s cheeks.

“Okay,” Bucky decides easily. “I want you, too. But you’re gonna prep yourself this time, okay?”

He swings himself over Steve and grabs the bottle of aloe. Steve shifts his hips back over the pillow and takes the bottle Bucky is offering him. It’s a better idea, he acknowledges. He can control the pace this way.

Steve fills his right palm with the gel. Once his fingers are coated he presses his right forefinger around his hole, prodding experimentally. This is all new. His first time.

“How did they- ?”

Bucky begins, propped up on Steve’s right side, but he cuts himself off quickly. He shakes his head when Steve looks at him.

“What?” Steve challenges, his fear and anger getting the better of him. “What did you wanna ask?”

Bucky shakes his head again. Steve answers his unspoken question anyway.

“They had a hostage,” Steve says. He barely registers his fingertip slipping inside him. “A young girl. They said they would rape her if I didn’t take her place. So I did.”

“They,” Bucky says again, like it’s a word too dirty for both the Brooklyn boy and the battle-worn soldier inside him. “How many is _they?”_

(Nine twisted, bloody corpses at his feet. But he chose it, and he ended it, and how dare he put this on Bucky?)

“Enough,” Steve answers vaguely. His entire forefinger is inside him. It feels too small. “How many for you?”

“Don’t remember,” Bucky answers too quickly. Steve almost calls Bucky on it, lying when he’d promised not to, but he doesn’t want to ruin this. Not anymore than he already has. “Never more than three at a time, though.”

Steve grunts his acknowledgement, even as his gut twists with fiery anger. He pulls his first finger halfway out and adds the tip of his middle finger when he pushes back in.

“More than twenty, over all the years,” Bucky continues after a pause. Truthful after all, putting Steve to shame. “Honestly don’t remember the exact number. Less than the number of innocent people I killed.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

Two slick fingers inside, and it burns, but not as much as Steve’s fury. The burn in his ass feels _good._

“Sure, I know. Still feels like my fault.”

Steve shoves in a third finger. The discomfort stops him for a moment as he adjusts. He looks for a distraction.

“So why’d they- why’d they _cut_ you?”

(He doesn’t have brain damage to blame for the words slipping out. What is _wrong_ with him?)

Bucky goes quiet beside him, his face blank. Steve wiggles his fingers, afraid to keep looking at Bucky. There’s mild pain, but he wants more. He needs more.

(If Bucky will even give it to him, after this).

“They, uh, castrated me near the beginning as a punishment. To humiliate me, make me stop fighting so hard. It worked.”

Steve can hear the shame and self-loathing creeping into Bucky’s voice, and he hates himself for it. His little finger joins his other three. He flexes them. He’s pretty sure he’s ready.

“The circumcision, that was sometime in the ‘70’s. Made it easier for them to clean. That one’s not such a big deal anyway, most guys these days- ”

“Bucky- ”

“No, Steve,” Bucky snaps. “I don’t need your fuckin’ pity. I rub that stupid testosterone gel on every morning, and I’m fine.”

“Buck,” Steve says softly, trying to undo the damage he’d started. “I’m ready for you.”

Bucky goes quiet again. Steve gathers the courage to look at him. Bucky’s face is softening from defiant shame, lust in his eyes when he stares at Steve’s fingers disappearing inside him. Steve smiles tentatively at him and Bucky blows out a long breath.

“You’re like a fucking roller coaster, Stevie,” he says in mild exasperation. “Gimme a minute to, uh, rekindle the mood.”

Steve nuzzles his head against Bucky’s chest. He feels Bucky’s breath in his hair. He can feel Bucky stroking himself with his right hand. He flexes his fingers again. The stretch is good.

“You been on a roller coaster, since?”

(They went to Coney Island a few weeks before Bucky shipped out for basic training. Steve was jealous, and heartbroken, and reckless because of it. Root beer burned like fire on its way back up).

“Oh yeah, lotsa times,” Bucky deadpans. “Hydra was real big on the downtime for its brainwashed assassin program.”

He pauses for a moment, both words and hand.

“Think I remember killing someone at Disneyland Paris, though. Huh.”

“We should go, to an amusement park,” Steve tries to redirect again. “Sam and Nat took me to Six Flags in Jersey. It was fun, I didn’t throw up once.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Bucky deliberates. “Only if we can bring Sam with us. I can tell that guy’s a screamer, and I wanna be there to make fun of him. Buy him one of those souvenir photos.”

(Steve was baffled by Sam’s reactions to the larger coasters. He’d thought Sam would be cool as a cucumber after all his time as the Falcon. _It’s different,_ Sam shrugged, smiling good-humoredly. _When you’re not in control of the ride)._

“My friends are ten-year-olds,” Steve bemoans sarcastically. “I’ll let you sort that out with him. Now, we gonna focus on the task at hand, or what?”

 _“You’re_ the one who keeps changing the subject!”

“Sure, okay. Blame the guy sittin’ here with his fingers up his ass waitin’ for you.”

(This doesn’t feel like pretending. Maybe there never was as much pretending as Steve thought).

Bucky groans. There’s a hint of annoyance in it, but it’s overshadowed by his need. Steve’s cock throbs untouched on his stomach. He hears the lid flip off the aloe vera, and the slick sound of skin on skin. Then Bucky’s hovering over him, eyes narrowed, hard and hungry. The mood is back. Palpably.

“I want you,” Steve reminds them both as he removes his fingers with a wet noise. “Only you.”

Bucky nods, wild-eyed. He guides his cock to where it needs to be. Steve adjusts his hips slightly, widening his thighs. Bucky slowly pushes his way home. There’s a burn, and a stretch, but-

(It doesn’t hurt. Not at all).

Bucky moves himself inside Steve, and it’s good. Steve smiles and nods his encouragement when Bucky looks at him with silent questions reflected in his stormy blue eyes.

(Yes, he’s okay. Yes, this is good. Yes, keep going, for the love of God, keep going).

Steve doesn’t last long. He’s barely touched himself since he came out of the ice, only when it becomes intolerable. He thinks about all of Tony’s jokes about his virginity and Natasha trying to set him up on dates. Not an issue any longer. He laughs.

He comes, again, but this is better. He’s so full, and Bucky’s weight is warm and comforting on top of him, his stomach giving Steve’s cock the friction he needs. His arms frame Steve’s shoulders, flesh and metal holding their owner aloft as he moves his hips up and down, drawing out Steve’s pleasure. Hot wetness bursts over Steve’s chest, some catching his chin. Bucky’s already bringing himself down to clean it off. He licks it up from Steve’s pecs, from the dip over his heart, and then he licks up Steve’s neck and chin. He kisses Steve, and Steve tastes himself on Bucky’s tongue.

(The more he tries to protect Bucky, to comfort him, the more he pushes Bucky away. This is what Bucky needs. This is what Steve can do for him. Maybe he’s not as selfish as he thought).

Bucky’s hips jerk erratically and his cock pulses inside Steve. He moans in Steve’s mouth, the sound starting somewhere in the bass range and rising to a high tenor as he throws back his head. Steve wrestles his arms from underneath Bucky and brings them around his shoulder blades, holding Bucky tightly as the tremors of his orgasm subside and he collapses on top of Steve. His beautiful Bucky, sweaty and rapturous against him.

(This is what Steve needs, and it feels good to be a little selfish. It’s his first time, after all).

“They’ll never take you away from me again,” Steve murmurs in Bucky’s ear.

“We need to shower,” Bucky murmurs back.

(Suffering’s not a competition. He knows he’ll forget that, but he reminds himself of it now, while his head is clear with joy).

They stroke each other off again in the shower. Steve’s never appreciated that super-soldier stamina more. They sleep naked in Bucky’s bed to avoid dealing with cleaning up Steve’s until the morning. Bucky’s bed is smaller, and they tangle together under the sheets. Steve ends up as little spoon, crumpling himself to fit. He likes it here.

(There’s old hurt, and it will always be there, but he barely feels it now. He’s not lying to himself. He barely feels it).

He wakes to find Bucky standing beside the bed, looking down at him. He’s wearing a pair of plaid cotton boxers. There’s life in his eyes.

“Mornin’ darlin’,” his confident smile is illuminated by a ray of sunlight glaring through a crack in the curtains. “Want some coffee?”

(Yes, this is good. Steve could get used to this. And, impossibly, miraculously, he _can)._

Steve sits up to kiss him. Bucky leans down to let him, deftly maneuvering the mug of coffee out of the way with his left arm. There’s coffee on his breath, but also the aftertaste of mint toothpaste. He sucks on Bucky’s bottom lip, letting the bristly hair scratch his chin and feeling Bucky’s smile against his.

Steve likes it here. He never wants to leave.


End file.
